


NSFW Snippets

by TopHat



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Bondage, F/F, Parody, life bends down, scene play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21687790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHat/pseuds/TopHat
Summary: NSFW snippets
Relationships: Citrine | Jeanne Wynn/Number Man | Kurt Wynn, Lily | Flechette | Foil/Sabah | Parian, Rebecca Costa-Brown | Alexandria/Fortuna | Contessa
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moments before play.

Lily didn’t eat enough. It was one of the many things that could be chalked up to living in a post-apocalypse. Say what you would about the deaths of literally trillions of people at the hands of an angry, golden incel, it forced a hard-reset of the cheap meat industry, fast food as a concept, and instituted mandatory dieting across the country. That didn’t mean people were healthy, per se, just that instead of suffering from chronic heart problems and diabetes it was light-headedness and stomach pangs.

It was dangerous for someone who could cut steel in two to be anything other than perfectly in control, so Lily tried to eat more. She smiled at the dishes Sabah threw together for their weekly dinners (regardless of how the alien spices burned her tongue), swallowed down slightly more than she was comfortable with (even if she knew, intellectually, that a plate of food at dinner wasn’t quite enough for a woman who regularly ran several miles a day), went through an acrobatics routine which would’ve made a circus blush, and engaged in life-or-death combat with near-psychopaths, all while wearing close to seventy pounds of weaponry and armor.

Lily held the gaze of the too-thin woman in the mirror for a second longer, trying to figure out what Sabah saw in her, then turned away and went back to getting ready for the evening.

It was always a little mortifying looking at gear. Part of it was _Oh shit I’m actually doing this_ , part of it was _Holy crap this is incredibly kinky_ , and a final part was _What would everyone else think if they knew?_ (Lisa knew and did nothing. Rachel didn’t know but wouldn’t care. Aisha knew and had probably watched, and Lily tried not to think about how she felt about that.) The blindfold, at least, could potentially be written off as an exceptionally classy prop, or maybe just as an odd mask for whenever she got tired of her official one. The corset and garters were similarly out-of-left-field-but-maybe-just-cape-things, black leather with silver embroidery, flowers and hummingbirds and the outlines of maidens in towers, a work of art independent of its function. God knew that Lily had seen some costumes with less work put into them than the single item, and, from a distance, maybe you could think that it was some sort of fancy armor that simply fed into an unconscious Freudian thing (like that one bitch Bluestocking).

The collar, though?

Lily sat on the side of the bed, buried her face in her hands, and took a few deep, _deep_ breaths.

It was like this every night Sabah wanted to do something a little heavier. Every night Lily had to muster up a little extra blind trust, had to pull a little out of herself before going through the motions needed to become something that she didn’t quite understand, had to stop being ‘Lily’ for a little bit. Lily was a woman who looked before she leapt, who would never be more than an arm's length away from something she could throw, who generally trusted the people around her but always verified in every situation she could get away with it, and certainly wouldn’t wrap herself up like a present for...

Lily clenched her fists, filled her lungs up as far as they would go, and let as much of herself as she could leave her body with the carbon dioxide.

The legs first. Silk over skin, over freshly-shaved legs, moisturized earlier that night to prevent inopportune itching. Snap-button the garters, not quite a point-of-no-return but a milestone nonetheless that made the rest of the set up easier.

The corset’s trickier. It’s a back-lacing one, and while Lily could simply go and ask for help from the woman in the room next door it would be too embarrassing for words to show up in partially-closed fetish gear ( _there, I said it,_ _ **fetish**_ ) so instead she went back to the mirror, twisted her head over one shoulder, and slowly closed the laces, one tug at a time ( _the right kind of binding, the kind I_ _ **choose**_ ), careful to keep them even, trying not to feel too masturbatory when she glanced at her hands and only saw her ass. That sent her down the rabbit hole of how little coverage the outfit provided overall ( _because that was the whole_ _ **point**_ ).

Then the corset is done and all that’s left to put on is the blindfold.

This shouldn’t be the hardest part. Lily would’ve preferred it if she’d felt a quiet fury at putting on a show for Sabah, at the objectification almost necessarily involved in their brand of play, at finding the descent from high-minded intellectualism to the needs of the flesh a problematic activity she put up with because her partner loved it. That should’ve been the grosser aspects of prep, the acknowledgement of all the meaty, sweaty, just-barely-irregular parts of the human body that would make even the most self-confident person in the world feel like shit for acknowledging that they too have pores. It could’ve been tied up in the real-world physical parts of bondage, in the million and three things that she did to stay in shape before even looking at fetish gear ( _Again the word, and again it’s_ _ **freeing!**_ ), the yoga or the cardio or the weights or the doctor’s appointments with capes she barely trusted who would bring her back to tip-top shape after a particularly brutal injury in the field which were completely necessary but still gave her the creeps because not _one_ of them didn’t look at her like she was a piece of meat.

Lily rubbed the silk between her fingers for a few moments, then lifted it over her head and pulled down.

So much of her power was visual. So much was knowing about how the things she saw moved, about the unfolded possibilities of every item she could see, about a persistent awareness of motion in all its forms. It was a passive sort of near-omniscience, almost inescapable, even when she could only feel and predict the way the bed would give under her when she fell back onto it with finally-loose shoulders and heavy eyelids, a constant blast of information that Lily figured Lisa had to deal with in the _n_ -th degree.

( _Maybe a good lay would help with her headaches. I should talk with Sabah about it. After._ )

The door creaked open, and behind the triple-layer of silk Lily’s mind told her that it was the same door it always was, the same footsteps she always heard on Saturday nights, the same cadence that she’d recognize even without the additional barrage of information informing her that yes, this was Sabah, this was the woman was here to take her, and that it was time to begin.

( _I can stop thinking now_.)

Fingers traced Lily’s jaw, lifting it just slightly, the beginning of a ritual which had long since etched itself so deeply into her mind that she turned towards Sabah in her sleep whenever she felt the fingers. Moments later she felt unglossed lips descend onto hers, finally, _finally_ ending what remind of coherent thought in her mind and leaving the woman who used to be Lily in the care of someone else.


	2. I Need That Desk For Accounting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexandria catches someone in the Number Man's office. Based on the picture of the same name by cPericardium: https://imgur.com/a/ZWUQsFr.

What did it mean to be the most powerful woman in the world?

It meant knowing too much. How to kill a man six different ways with office supplies, the nuclear launch codes of every tinker silo on the planet, the secret whispers of an S-class cape muttered to his favorite lover, anything that could potentially make their odds even a little better. A deluge, mostly useless, all necessary, that sprung eternal from between Contessa’s ears that started when she learned she could ask, now an unending torrent of noise with more power than Niagra.

(She wished in weak moments that it would miraculously stop, and that she could leave the world to someone else.)

It meant counting every second of every day wasted. No matter how well each hour was spent, no matter what good was done, regret would hound her for other paths not taken. Every bullet potentially sent to a more deserving target, every sacrifice of human life perhaps unnecessary, every decision ripe with identifiable and petty biases that would seem inconsequential if the world itself were not on the line. Her waking moments could be counted among the most useful units of value in history, and though she strived to possess as many of them as possible a few spare seconds could escape her from time to time.

(She could work more. There were operations, more tinkertech that could be installed, Trumps that could be placed under a chain of Masters, but they fudged the numbers so little that Contessa allowed herself to tell Doctor Mother _No, I am too valuable to risk_.)

It meant a social circle that could be counted on one hand. It meant having no one to drink with, no one to complain with or too, not even a _knitting group_ outside her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year job. She had colleagues she could never afford to get too close to if plans changed and she needed to crack their heads like eggs, a figurehead who knew her for longer than anyone else and still hadn’t told Contessa her first name, and a cavernous basement full of humans she’d spent her life giving forms closer to Dali’s acid nightmares than salvation.

(The subjects were still among the loudest voices in Contessa’s head, telling her to quit, to kill herself, to let the world burn and instead spend what little time she had searching for a way to heal the mass-annihilation of personhood she’d found herself more than complicit in.)

Being the most powerful person in the world meant also being the most responsible person in the world, and sometimes the weight of that responsibility was just too much.

“Hydrangea.”

Contessa immediately stopped listening to her power (insofar as that was possible) and let the impact of a pair of a pair of near-inviolable hands push her off balance. She caught herself against the Number Man’s desk, scattering paper and knocking the not-perpetual motion machines to the floor in a clatter of lies, then froze when she felt a warm, strong, unstoppable weight settle against her.

“And what do you think you’re doing here?” Alexandria growled.

A ridiculous question. Contessa enforced Cauldron, if not in name by practice, and even if she hadn’t the idea that any place on any number of Earths would be forbidden to her was more irritating than amusing. Such words demanded a response, and from another mouth that response would’ve been short and lethal.

Instead Contessa arched a little, swallowing where heat built up in anticipation. “Nothing.”

“Really?” Alexandria growled, one hand sliding around Contessa’s neck as the other began sliding up and down her flanks, dipping in Contessa’s pockets and squeezing through the cloth. “Because it seems like you were looking for something. Something you’re not supposed to have.”

The hand drifted back, spread over Contessa’s entire right asscheek, and squeezed. “Sure you don’t want to tell me?”

Contessa held still as she possibly could.

A great ripping sound almost broke the scene, almost made Contessa reach for the way out, but her discipline held out. She was rewarded with a breeze across the back of her thighs, a wave of embarrassment that ran from her breasts to the top of her head, and a single hitched breath from Alexandria.

When she felt the moment almost go too long, Contessa wiggled her completely-bare buttocks. “Maybe you can convince me.”


	3. When You're Tryna Draft the PRT Guidelines but Your Coworkers are Too Sexy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca Dealing With Sexy CoWorkers. Inspiration image is here: https://imgur.com/a/BFvD0tc.

_ Slap slap slap slap slap _

The most overlooked aspect of Rebecca’s powerset was the mental aspect.

_ Slap slap slap slap slap _

Hypercognition combined with a perfect memory and past-human senses in general may not have sounded like much when compared to the ability to smack around Endbringers, but on a day-to-day level the ability to simply  _ think better _ than her coworkers usually served as the most personally-noticeable difference between her and a regular  _ homo sapien _ .

_ Slap slap slap slap slap _

In the time it took most people to improperly put together a spreadsheet, she’d already drafted the constitution for a national organization which would govern parahuman policing, drawn up a chain of command that was clear while also preventing the consolidation of power by anyone other than her, and figured out how to run it while also having a full-time career as one of the most powerful capes on the planet.

_ Slap slap slap slap slap _

All this while keeping track of precisely how many times David had plunged into Doctor Mother in the cubicle behind her.

_ Slap slap slap slap slap _

“Are you close to finishing yet? I have experiments to run.”

“Are you?”

“David if I wanted to orgasm I’d grab my vibrator.”

“I mean, I don’t want to be the sort of guy who just does a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am—”

“Okay, we’re done here.”

The wet sound of flesh-on-flesh finally stopped, giving Rebecca a single moment of peace.

Then Doctor Mother sat down on Rebecca’s desk, lab coat open to reveal a slightly-sweaty body that smelled distinctly of sex, and asked, “How’re the PRT guidelines going?”

“They’ve been sitting in your email for at least a week now,” Rebecca said, pointedly making eye contact.

Doctor Mother pointedly wasn’t, and it didn’t take a thinker to figure out that she was trying to get a glance down Rebecca’s shirt. “Well, you know, times are busy now, and it’s hard to prioritize work—”

“I’m sure you can find moments to ensure the stability of the North American continent,” Rebecca interrupted, casually shattering a pen. “Oh no, look at this writing utensil which I have annihilated in a moment of pique. Imagine what would happen if a superior tried to force me into sexual congress in order to pass a piece of critical legislation and I were to instead snap their fucking neck.”

After a moment of silence, Rebecca slammed her hand through her desk. “Make it happen Doctor Mother or I swear to fucking God you won’t be able to find a gigolo in any develop nation free of STDs to get your rocks off with.”

Doctor Mother groaned and stood up. “Fine, fine, fine, you fucking prude. The human race will have its chances of survival ‘improved’ by ‘creating a legislative branch controlled by you for the betterment of the common human.’”

She sighed and put her fists on her hips, shaking both her head and her ample, pendulant breasts. “Get  _ laid _ already, you frigid bitch.”

Then she left before Rebecca could think better of not caving in her skull.

After finishing the hundred-plus page document, Rebecca left her desk and walked for the designated portal room, choosing to pretend like the strip-show Contessa was putting on for the Number Man while he became steadily more and more erect in response to the rising numbers in a spreadsheet of estimates for the GDP for the Indian-subcontinent had never happened.

(This would not stop imagined scenes of the long, veined shafted plunging into an immaculately shaved crevice, complete with both femme and masculine gasps of pleasure, nor the varied positions and locations in which the two far-too-smart individuals would choose to copulate in [perhaps even her own closet], but masturbation was for off hours and not the workday.) 

Once home, Rebecca would complete the last of her PRT paperwork, a task that could take, at most, fifteen minutes. Initially she’d worried about having too much work, but time had proven her a fool of a took and instead she’d had to find ways to fill her off hours, both to keep her cover secure and to ensure that she simply didn’t go stir-crazy from a lack of orgasmic pleasure.

So after thirty minutes of trying to get off to Case-53 porn using a tinker-tech vibrator that could bore a hole through a diamond, Rebecca gave up and pulled out the black phone.

“Crawler, you alone?”

“...”

“Do you still have a horse dick?”

“...”

“I’ll be there in three.”


	4. Post-Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca coming out of the shower. Inspiration is here: https://imgur.com/qfin4bS [NSFW].

Loving Contessa was complicated.

Rebecca couldn’t be as messy as she wanted. She had to explain things that seemed simple, things which elementary school children would’ve learned to accept as normal. She had to constantly reinforce the importance of ambiguity, of the unknown, of the horizon as a concept rather than a place, of what-could-be in the sense that inspired hope rather than fear. Each conversation demanded a double, triple check of overlapping meanings, of fully engaging with reality in a way that rarely escaped the ivory tower, of confronting not what Rebecca wished to see and instead asking what  _ was _ , not through her lens, but rather through the eyes of a girl more fundamentally grounded in the material than even the most delusional rationalist.

For a lesser person it would be exhausting.

In turn Rebecca received  _ reality _ .

Rebecca received dinners on boats, where fireworks constantly lit up the sky like watercolors from God. Rebecca received paid bills like the nearly-immanent socialist utopia, where those who could helped those who couldn’t. Rebecca received newspaper clipping describing a slowly progressing world, where Evil magically disappeared when it was recognized as clearly wrong in the eyes of the Moral. Rebecca received moments of need like a Father behind a screen of worked iron, except instead of iron it was silk and behind each lattice was pale skin decorated with goose pimples that signaled both nervousness and anticipation that demanded the touch of lips and upturned eyes meeting irises colored by lust—

She shut off the shower, and took a moment of quiet, listening only to the gentle dripping of water and her own breathing.

Then Rebecca got out of the shower.

As the vapor spilled out of the glass prison and condensed on the mirror, Rebecca leaned over the sink and tried to decide if the partially-obscured, freshly-cleaned, limp and lanky hair improved her look. The fog certainly did, hiding spots of stubborn acne, the ungraceful nature of bare flesh hanging off bones, and the three tiny dots tattooed on her left breast, and she liked to think the flash of heat that came with any extended period of nude self-examination said something good about her self-esteem...

But she needed a second opinion.

Rebecca stepped away from the mirror, cracked open the bathroom door, and peered out into the hotel room.

“—I don’t care about how much they could improve your productivity Philip, do not adopt a litter of tuxedo kittens and name them after literary theorists.”

She was focused. Good.

“First because state law prohibits more than three cats per household, then because you know Foster Mother is allergic, and finally because Roland Barthes deserved to be hit by that milk truck.”

Slowly, the Rebecca stalks her prey, tip-toeing in the brief, hoping the scent of cucumber conditioner, sounds of drip-drying, and the sub-audible pounding of her heart didn’t give her away.

“He was pedantic at best and deliberately obtuse at worst, and everything we can do to eliminate memories of him—”

The rant abruptly cut off when Rebecca slipped around the chair and onto Contessa’s lap.

Slowly, she put down the phone.

“Good girl,” Rebecca purred, pulling at the already-damp tie and tilting her head back. “Now then, why don’t you pay attention to some more important pussy?”


	5. Tongue Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this piece of fanart, by Pericardium: https://imgur.com/a/MgYcdWN.

If there was a combination of fetishes more viscerally satisfying than cuckoldry and exhibitionistm Jeanne had yet to discover it, and not for lack of trying. The closest had been CFNM and pegging, and even then she’d found herself imaging them in an office high-rise with Kurt’s breath slowly fogging a floor-to-ceiling window that shook with every thrust instead.

(Jeanne had a thing for office chique, something she blamed in a completely not-Freudian way on Accord.)

She sighed in pleasure as Kurt tongue-fucked her in a mathematically perfect manner, riding the fine line between eager and slobbering, one hand clutching the pillow behind her and the other slowly tangling in the sheets around its treasure. Jeanne had tied Kurt up and edged him for too many hours to ever accept the term ‘pillow princess,’ but sometimes it was nice to let your partner do all the work.

He lifted his head for a moment. “May I please come now?”

“Of course not,” she responded, before flicking the control for the vibrators strapped around his cock to their second-highest setting.

He groaned and went back to eating her out, a constant and steady pressure from her vag to her clit that made Jeanne’s bare legs develop goosebumps. It had taken a while for him to get used to eating pussy instead of sucking dick, but after breaking him of all the bad habits ingrained by his ex Jeanne considered Kurt something of a submissive sex _God_ that could coax orgasms out of a stone.

And she was a lot, lot more responsive than a stone.

Jeanne turned to the side and gazed through half lidded eyes at Contessa, who was seated across the room and staring at the scene with undisguised interest in where Kurt’s face met Jeanne’s box.

She nodded towards Kurt’s bare rear end. _Want his ass?_

Contessa shook her head, tapping her chin twice. _No thank you_ . _It’s oral or nothing for me_.

Jeanne wrapped her legs around Kurt’s head and ran her fingers through his hair, savoring the hitched breath against her clit. _His mouth is mine._

Contessa raised an eyebrow, and the non-response made the warmth between Jeanne’s legs burn that much hotter. Kurt could tell her every which way that his workplace flings were behind him, that he definitely liked women as well as men, that he were a loyal spouse with no desire to stray, and no matter how many times he articulated and re-articulated those thoughts the idea of _ripping_ that stud of a man away from someone else made each high _so much better_.

Her peak came, and Jeanne spasmed against Kurt’s mouth in ecstasy.

Fucking someone in front of their ex was the _best_.


End file.
